


Guileless Son

by FoxNonny



Series: Child, the Darkness Will Rise [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Danarius - Freeform, i guess??, implied Shit Happening to Fenris, some hurt/comfort elements, spoilers for inquisition??, the usual I guess but nothing explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6032890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxNonny/pseuds/FoxNonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dread Wolf has a chance encounter in the Fade with a young elf dying from a mad magister's experiment. Though he knows better than to interfere, he is far too fascinated not to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guileless Son

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Heather Dale's "Mordred's Lullaby" (side note: will Foxnonny ever stop naming their fics after song lyrics? Probably not). Enjoy!

The boy was mutilated. 

Fen'Harel, Dread Wolf, Lord of Tricksters and now, not much more than an old wanderer, was drawn to this part of the Fade by the waves of disruption emanating from the elf flickering in and out of existence before him. Sickened, and fascinated, he approached cautiously as the boy flashed before his eyes, bloodied hands scrambling in the insubstantial earth of the Fade, then with a broken cry he disappeared again. 

He'd come across the dreams of many troubled elves in the Fade, and tried to avoid them as best he could. He was not of that world anymore, and pouring energy into such an empty well of cause as the plight of Elvhen people who'd forgotten all they were was a pointless exercise in self-hatred. Not worth the effort, nor the inevitable pain, frustration, anger.

So it wasn't the boy's pain that gave him pause. It was the situation itself - the glowing, the ripples of frantic energy, the no doubt unsettling switch from one reality to another, and back; very interesting. Horrifying. And oddly familiar.

The boy appeared again, convulsing, and this time Fen'Harel closed the distance between them, taking the elf's wrist in hand. The boy shouted in pain - tried to, screams already having torn his throat to shreds - and said something pleading, half-formed babble in Tevene.

The Wolf felt his lip curl. Tevene. Of course. A slave, then. Some magister's pet, an unwilling subject for experimentation. Oh, he'd seen this before, many times, and likely would for many long centuries to come. 

There was a surge of wild magic, and he felt the boy about to slip away from him again. 

"Not yet," Fen'Harel murmured, feeding a short burst of power into the palm wrapped around the boy's wrist, creating an anchor to tie the elf to this reality, to the trickster himself. "Let me take a look at you."

The boy seemed in too much pain to listen, never mind obey, and Fen'Harel could see why, now. The bright, flashing marks were lines of pure lyrium carved into the elf's flesh, covering him from head to toe. Even here, in the Fade, it was clear by the weepings of blood slipping out from under the lyrium that the marks were freshly cut.

Fen'Harel blinked, and nearly laughed. The _pride_  of these Tevinter fools was unimaginable, thinking to recreate the lyrium warriors of old. He'd seen few attempts to revive the practice since it fell out of vogue, too unpredictable an expense to remain popular. Most victims would be dead by now.

And yet, this boy was not. 

Tilting his head, Fen'Harel reached out a hand and placed it over the boy's brow, feeling the pricklings of magic gathering under his palm and sparking against the lyrium, which flashed bright in response. The boy arched his back as he spasmed with pain, teeth clenched tight as he bit back another scream.

It took little effort to dull the pain, though in trade Fen'Harel was forced to take on a portion of it himself. He winced as hot agony raced through his veins like fire - not as bad as he'd ever been forced to endure by far, but certainly more than an average person would be able to bear. Again he wondered at the boy's strength, that he was still alive and as far as the Wolf could tell, relatively sane.

The boy fell back against the ground, thin chest heaving as he drew in large, hungry gasps of air, relief clear in his large, green eyes.

"What is your name?" the Wolf asked, in Tevene. 

The boy blinked, and blinked again, struggling to comprehend. "W-where am I-?"

"The Fade, as you might find yourself when you are dreaming," Fen'Harel said patiently. "For the time being, let us say that you are dreaming now. What is your name?"

The boy frowned, and shook his head. "I do not know. Master Danarius... he calls me Fenris."

Now Fen'Harel did laugh, patting the boy's shoulder when his face crumpled in shame. "Forgive me, it is not a bad name. Not in the slightest; far better, I think, than your master ever intended."

"I don't understand," the boy said. 

"No, and it is right that you should not," Fen'Harel said, still smiling, a little incredulous. ""Little Wolf." Well, it is fitting I should find you, then."

Fenris opened his mouth to respond, but Fen'Harel felt a sudden tug on the anchor tying them to one another, and whatever the boy had planned to say was lost in a short cry of pain as the markings flashed, trying to pull him back to the waking world. 

Steeling himself, Fen'Harel pulled the wayward energy of the markings into himself, riding the wave of agony to its conclusion as Fenris shivered in his grasp, clearly miserable. 

"Though it hardly helps to hear, I imagine, you are faring remarkably well given your situation," the trickster said, lifting Fenris's wrist to examine the markings. His lips thinned slightly to see how the marks were designed - like the slave tattoos of old, that the Dalish now foolishly wore in a misguided attempt to hold to a culture that was never truly theirs, that was forced upon them in blood. "However, you lack the control necessary to harness the energy of the lyrium. The instability of the markings is flinging you back and forth between worlds, as you've no doubt noticed. It will tear you apart, and before long you will be dead."

A clinical truth, and some part of Fen'Harel felt if not sorrow, a distinct ruefulness at the waste of such a strong life, given far too few years to walk the land for the sake of some magister's amusement. But he was old, so very old, and feeling those years, filled with memories of many who had suffered without cause. Eventually this boy would be like those who'd passed before under his gaze - a memory, a regrettable one, and nothing more. 

Fenris was staring at him, eyes tight with pain, but not fear. If anything, there was a sense of resignation there that spoke of a man who'd lived for far longer, seen far more than this boy possibly could have. The Wolf found it unsettlingly familiar a look.

"You do not seem very concerned about your impending doom," he said.

"I am not afraid of death," Fenris said, the response sounding instinctive. Less certainly, he added, "But I do not want to die."

He turned away, as if he'd said something shameful. Fen'Harel, however, was fascinated. It was likely that will to live that had kept the boy from being torn apart already.

"There is an obsession with noble death in the waking world," Fen'Harel said, knowing he should leave and have done, knowing he was becoming far too invested in this dying elf. "Everyone seems far too eager to throw themselves into the Void, if only so the bards might sing kindly of them. It is foolish. I would not be ashamed of wanting to live, child. It speaks of remarkable strength."

Fenris could not meet his eyes, but there was a flush in his cheeks. Likely he'd very rarely been complimented in his short life, aside from whatever sweet words the magister ployed him with. For a moment, a familiar heat of rage washed through Fen'Harel, knowing that a boy who looked like Fenris would not have escaped his master's reaching hands and sick desires. 

But it happened every day, to hundreds, thousands of elves. This was just one boy. 

"The reason your master chose someone like you for this experiment is that you are not a mage," Fen'Harel said slowly, aware that he was making a choice here. A stupid choice. An involved choice. "The natural magic a mage possesses would fight the lyrium, or combine with the lyrium and destroy the flesh to create a sentient being of pure magic. The magister would have needed a blank slate. However, to control the lyrium as it is now, _grafted_  to you, you would need the part of a mage's mind that controls magic. For mages, it is as instinctive as breathing, or flexing one's fingers. The irony, I imagine, does not escape you."

Fenris nodded wearily, then shuddered as the markings flared again, burning through him. 

"If you'll permit me, I can... activate certain parts of your mind, allowing you to control these markings," the Wolf said. "You will live. But you will still be your master's pet, with no understanding of what it means to be free. Likely you do not understand that now, so I will attempt to explain it to you. He will make you kill for him. He will hurt you, take you to his bed, debase you. You might never be free of him, until the day you die - by his hand, or protecting him. You will wake from this world a slave. Many would choose death. And if that is your wish, I can collect your soul from your body so easily you would not feel your own passing, only peace."

Though he would make good on such a promise, Fen'Harel really only mentioned the other option out of simple curiosity. It would be disappointing to offer aid to one of the lost Elvhen for the first time in a very long while, only to see that strong spirit cave when offered an easy death.

Likewise, it would be disappointing to see Fenris accept his shackles in a heartbeat, with no real comprehension of what he was giving up.

Fenris did neither of these things. He lay there, still breathing unsteadily from the pain, fists clenched and bleeding, brow furrowed deep in thought.

Eventually, minutes or hours later, he met the Dread Wolf's gaze. 

"Who are you?" he asked.

Fen'Harel blinked, taken aback. Then, despite himself, he smiled. The boy had passed a test he himself wasn't aware he'd set. 

"Call me Solas, if anything, for that is often what I am," he said, inclining his head. 

Fenris gritted his teeth against a jolt of pain, then said, "Solas. I do not know who or what you are, or if I should trust you. Likely you're no more than a dream, as you said. But if it's within your power to grant... I do not want to die."

The trickster smiled again, genuine. "As you wish. You've earned my respect, child. I will see it done.""

He took Fenris's head into his hands, calling power to his palms once more, and closed his eyes.

It took very little work to open the boy's mind - he was young, still, and there was a sharp intelligence behind those pain-filled eyes. Soon the magic of the lyrium began to stabilize, finding an outlet in Fenris's thoughts, and Fen'Harel felt the tugging of wild energy on the anchor he'd made lessen, then cease altogether. 

Finished, he settled back, watching as Fenris sat up in a dazed shock, a hand to his head. "I... I feel..."

"Different, I would imagine," Fen'Harel said, setting to work dismantling the anchor between them. "It will take some getting used to, and some practice to learn to use it, but at the very least you should remain intact."

Fenris looked at his hands, the lyrium markings duller now without errant magic spiking through them, then looked to Fen'Harel with wide eyes. "Thank you."

"You might not thank me later," Fen'Harel said. "You have chosen a hard path, child. I cannot know what will become of you."

_But I plan to find out,_  the trickster thought to himself, leaving a thread of the magical anchor in place. Just a thread. Just so he would never lose track of this strong soul.

Fenris looked back to his hands, rubbing a thumb through some blood droplets seeping from the markings in his forefinger. "When I wake... the pain will return."

Fen'Harel nodded. "It will be lessened slightly, now that you are no longer dying, but I'm afraid what has been done to you is nothing short of ongoing torture. But the pain, like all things, will pass. You will heal, and learn to ignore smaller aches. I cannot promise it will be pleasant, but it will eventually be tolerable."

Fenris's jaw clenched, and the Wolf could smell his fear - of pain, of his master, of his new power - but the boy would not let it show. "Then that's... alright. I'm grateful, Solas. I just..."

He seemed to think for a moment, then shook his head.

Curious, Fen'Harel said, "You just...?"

Fenris seemed ashamed again, but he continued. "I- I haven't slept. In days. When the pain returns I won't be able to, not for a while."

Fen'Harel shrugged. "Sleep is not so hard to manage. The lesser mages can put someone to sleep with ease. If that is what you want, I can give you rest."

Fenris sagged a little, looking far more awed and grateful than when Fen'Harel had told him he could save his life. "If- if it does not trouble you-"

"I assure you if it did, I would not offer it," Fen'Harel said. "Lie back, and allow me."

Fenris did not so much lay down as he did fall, clearly exhausted. "Thank you, Ser-"

"Just Solas," Fen'Harel said, laying his hand over Fenris's eyes. "Sleep."

He lifted his palm, and the boy was asleep, his form beginning to fade as he fell back into the world. _A dreamless sleep._  The only true rest Fen'Harel could offer him. 

Fen'Harel leaned down, whispering into Fenris's ear before he disappeared entirely. "Remember, child, you are not that man's dog - you are a _wolf._  And we are, above all else, free. When the time comes, _run_ , and do not look back. You will not remember this encounter, but know that you are free."

He kissed the boy's forehead, lips brushing three small circles of lyrium carved there, then the boy was gone.

The trickster stood, a twisted smile on his face. Foolish, foolish- utterly foolish, no doubt. What an unpredictable force he'd just unleashed upon the world, the first lyrium warrior in hundreds of years. He was not, however, remotely regretful. 

As he stepped away to continue his aimless wander through the Fade, he realized his lips were still wet. Blood, no doubt, from the markings. He licked it away absent-mindedly.

And stopped.

The Dread Wolf knew the taste of his own blood, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> WAS THAT A WILD HEADCANON YOU JUST READ? IT WAS.
> 
> The ending is open to interpretation - like, maybe Fenris is descended from Fen'Harel distantly, or (as is my personal dumb headcanon want), is Fen'Harel's son. We never hear anything about his father, he has enormous strength of will that allowed him to survive the ritual, HE'S NAMED LITTLE WOLF. FOR THE LOVE OF ANDRASTE. 
> 
> Son or not, I love any and all interactions Fenris and Solas have in fics (my favourite dynamic is from the ongoing fic Only the Moon Howls, but believe me, I will read anything with them in it together. Talking. I love it.)
> 
> (And imagine Hawke having to deal with Solas as a father-in-law. Just imagine.)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and if the Powers That Be come out with a wild twist regarding Fenris's parentage, I hope people look back on this and hail me as a new prophet. Or you know. Just comment and kudos it. I love you all.


End file.
